


your veins are full of ice water but mine are boiling

by SallyK



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: """relationship""", (the mature rating is more to be safe than anything), Established Relationship, M/M, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-09 04:45:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15259722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SallyK/pseuds/SallyK
Summary: Ja’far is never gentle.That doesn't mean he's an incompetent or careless lover. He proudly considers himself as a person who accomplishes every task at hand thoroughly and methodically, be it paperwork orbedwork. Ja’far is pretty sure he can be gentler if he wants to.But this is Judar.Judar.





	your veins are full of ice water but mine are boiling

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written as a birthday gift to **Sofi**. Last year I wrote her a small JuJa drabble in Spanish and I really liked the idea, so this is kind of a bigger/revamped version of that drabble.
> 
> English is not my first language but I tried my best! Also I haven't read SnB or Magi in ages (yeah, I still have to finish reading Magi) so there might be some inaccuracies in the text.
> 
> The title is a quote from _Wuthering Heights_ that I've taken way out of context.
> 
> I hope you like it!

### I.

Ja’far is never gentle.

That doesn't mean he’s an incompetent or careless lover. He proudly considers himself as a person who accomplishes every task at hand thoroughly and methodically, be it paperwork or _bed_ work. Ja’far is pretty sure he can be gentler if he wants to.

But this is Judar. _Judar._ With his ridiculous hairstyle, his black nail polish and dark make up, his golden jewelry. Judar, with his cruel smile, his venomous words, his malicious tricks. Judar, with even more blood on his hands than him, his dreams of glory and conquest, his contempt for human life.

Judar.

His enemy.

_Sin’s enemy._

Even when it’s just the two of them, the moon and the stars as the sole witnesses, he can’t bring himself to treat Judar gently. So he bites and he scratches, and sometimes he even _cuts,_ as if he is making war, not love, and has to fight for his life.

Judar fights back.

The magi has never, not once, said he wants to be handled differently, or acted like he doesn't like what he gets. Ja’far doesn’t ask, because he doesn’t care, but he knows that this arrangement works because Judar goes to him _precisely_ to avoid everything remotely similar to kindness.

(That is, if Judar actually knows the true meaning of that word. Ja’far thinks it’s one of the many things Al-Thamen has taken away from him.)

If—or when—Judar feels like being treated like royalty, like a divinity, even, he just has to choose the first servant that is unfortunate enough of crossing paths with him. Maybe due to the fear of the consequences of disobeying, maybe due to genuine adoration to a creature so far removed from simple mortals, it doesn’t matter; the case is that Judar would find a more deferential treatment anywhere else, with anyone else.

He certainly won’t find it with Ja’far.

### II.

Ja’far never looks for Judar. It’s the Magi the one who appears suddenly at his windowsill, no jewelry on, and enters his bedroom without asking for permission because he knows he doesn’t need it and he knows Ja’far can’t actually stop him. Ja’far sometimes wonders if Judar has ever asked for permission in his life before or if he just takes and takes until there is nothing left behind but emptiness and blood and death.

The crooked smile Judar wears every time he steps in—there are no greetings, no fake pleasantries, even no taunts, just that damned smile and eyes bright red, like freshly drawn blood—is a mocking reminder of the differences between the two of them. In power, in personality, in _everything._ Ja’far has learned how to be (almost) unbothered by the way Judar tries to make him feel weaker, inferior. It’s better to think about what makes them apart than about what makes them similar, anyways.

(Because there are things, he just doesn’t look at them and keeps going on with his life, like he does with everything he wants… no, he _needs_ to ignore.)

But there are other reasons why Ja’far prefers Judar to be who initiates everything, even if it comes with his scorn.

Ja’far has an actual job; a king and a country to take care of. Sin is a more efficient monarch than people—including himself—tend to believe, but that means nothing against the amount of work Sindria and the Alliance require to run smoothly. Parchments and scrolls are almost the only ornament in Ja’far’s bedroom and a smell of ink and paper always hangs in the air, even if he does the most delicate and important work somewhere else for obvious reasons.

Sometimes there are still ink stains in Ja’far’s fingers when he touches Judar and the Magi laughs, pointing at the black spots over his fair skin. It isn’t because he finds it funny that Ja’far is too hardworking, or careless, or both.  The stains are a visual reminder of the darkness that dwells inside Ja’far’s heart and they both know it. He always cleans them a little too roughly once he’s alone, until his skin is red and sore, but Judar’s laugh can’t be erased with water and cloth.

Sometimes the parchments he has just finished writing end up crumbled, thorn, even. When Judar leaves, Ja’far, still aching and only wanting to sleep, silently repeats his wasted work and tells himself next time they have to meet in another place.

They don’t.

They _can’t_.

It would be a futile attempt to go to Judar for once.  Even if Ja’far had the ability to travel all the way to Kou or wherever Judar was supposed to be without being noticed, the Magi is more changeable and volatile than a small child—and much more dangerous. Absolutely nothing assures him that Judar won’t be more in the mood of using him as target practice for his ice spikes instead of wanting just slightly freeze his lips with his fingertips.  

No.

He hates the mess his bedroom turns into most of the nights and he hates how Judar’s presence lingers on for hours, for days even, after his departure, like the aftertaste of a bad dream. It’s almost as if the Magi can leave a part of himself behind to haunt him, hidden in the shadows the candles can’t cast off, under his bed, behind his closed eyelids when he tries to sleep.

He hates it.

But it’s better this way.

(It’s the only way.)

And, certainly, there is some satisfaction in being the one to whom the other comes to. In being _desirable_ enough that Judar makes the effort to slip through Sindria’s defences just to see him. Judar could try to mess up with Sin, could try to steal something valuable, could try to hurt the people Ja’far cares so much about. But the only person he ever hurts, when he does, is him, and it feels _good_.

He knows too well that the satisfaction he feels is wrong, so he tries to bury it alongside everything else Judar awakens in him. He should be better than that. But he’s only human and humanity is weak, as Judar likes to remind him from time to time. He’s only human and sometimes his satisfaction slips through and comes up in the opening, where Judar can see it.

The Magi’s visits stop for a while whenever that happens, and Ja’far suspects it’s because of pure pettiness; Judar hates not having the upper hand and him always coming back might be the biggest weakness he has shown Ja’far in all the years they’ve known each other.

(That makes Ja’far feel even more both satisfied and ashamed.)

After these hiatus, Judar always seems more eager, inquisitive, trying to decipher how much Ja’far has missed him, how much his visits mean to him. He always sounds mocking, disdain, when he asks, but Ja’far knows his curiosity is genuine. It’s like a bug biting him in the back, where the Magi can’t reach to kill it himself. There is no sentimentalism behind the interest, though. It isn’t hard to realize that Judar is just trying to find more ammunition against him, more ill-minded words to whisper against his neck.

Ja’far just kisses, and bites, and scratches, and never answers.

There isn’t a clear answer. There isn’t a correct answer.

There is so much _wrong_ between them for any answer to even exist.

### III.

Ja’far is glad that Judar always appears during the night. It’s easier to sneak around when everybody else is sleeping, but that’s not the reason why the Magi does it.

He showed up once during the day; one summer afternoon Ja’far was revising the budget for a festival. It had been strange, seeing his silhouette standing out against a blue sky instead of a black one. And, for one second, Ja’far thought that this was it, that the Magi was bored of their game and that the next festival Sindria held was going to be his funeral. But the fight Judar was looking for was the same one as always, and Ja’far started to forget about flowers, food and figures until the Magi muttered that that was wrong, that the daytime, the _light_ didn’t suit any of them. He had left then, leaving a very confused and angry Ja’far behind.

After that incident, Judar has never come back before the sun sinks into the ocean and the colours in the sky start to look like a bruise.

He always comes at night, although not every night. And, somehow, he doesn’t sneak into the bedroom the nights in which Ja’far would have said no.

Maybe it’s a lucky coincidence or maybe Judar _knows._ Ja’far doesn’t care about the reason why as long as things don’t change, but sometimes he can’t help but wonder. He wonders how different it would be if he was one of Kou’s inhabitants, if Judar would do with him the same he does with the servants he takes as he pleases. He wonders, and he knows that, if that was the case, he would be already dead.

Judar doesn’t appear every night Ja’far would have said yes, either. That isn’t concerning, just normal, although Ja’far often thinks it’s another one of Judar’s schemes to check how much he cares. If that’s the case, Judar is wasting his time. The Magi will never catch him looking wistfully through the window, wishing he were there.

He doesn’t want him around.

Until he is.

Then, just for a brief moment, he doesn’t want him afar.

### IV.

The weather is hot and humid, beads of sweat have been trickling down Ja’far’s forehead all day. Even after the sun has disappeared, the wind that comes from the sea it’s too warm to his liking, so he’s _almost_ grateful Judar has decided to appear tonight. He knows that means he will end up sweating even more, but the Magi has a thing for playing around with his ice and it could be pleasant.

Thinking about that, he puts down his quill and gets up from his chair.

Judar is smiling. That’s hardly a surprise. But after all those nights, after all those _months,_ and against his better judgement, Ja’far has started to notice the differences between his smiles. This one isn’t good.

« _The day has come_ » he thinks, getting ready to fight.

Judar just keeps smiling as he approaches the bed and lays down without taking his eyes of him. He doesn’t seem more dangerous than usual and Ja’far wonders if he’s just reading too much into the situation, if the heat of the day has toasted his brain or if it’s just a complicated trap to kill him once he’s half naked to make the discovery of his body something disgraceful.

Ja’far gets closer anyways, getting rid of his keffiyeh on his way to the bed. They aren’t especially chatty, because they’re not here to talk, but this silence isn’t normal either. He’s waiting for the insult, the suggestive comment, _anything._

Judar just smiles.

Ja’far gets on the bed, thinking from where the attack will come, if he can try to stab the Magi before Judar turns him into a pincushion of ice.

But when Judar raises his hand is just to grab his shoulder and draw him in. Ja’far feels the smile against his lips so he kisses harder, rougher. His nails scrap Judar’s nape and the Magi responds biting his lower lip with so much viciousness he tastes iron in his mouth. Ja’far guesses it’s just the first blood they will draw tonight.

They kiss—if one can call _this_ kissing, when there is only teeth, lust and violence—until they have to stop to breathe again. Judar’s hands are on his sides, pretending to get rid of his clothing but actually just riling him up. He’s taking more time than usual and Ja’far wonders if he’s trying to make him beg.

Then the Magi pushes him to the side, so he can climb on top of Ja’far, the ferocity in his eyes so intense it would scare a wild beast. Ja’far leans in for another kiss, yanking Judar’s hair to make him move his head for better access, but before their mouths clash again the Magi puts two fingers between their lips, making him stop.

“What would that idiot king think if he saw you right now, Freckles?” Judar’s words drip like poison.

Ja’far has to resort to all of his will to keep calm and not react to that simple sentence; he can’t give the Magi the satisfaction of seeing him flinch.

It’s because that kind of things that, even if he wants to, it would be impossible to forget that the man lying over him is his enemy. Judar likes to remind him from time to time, as if he wasn’t aware enough already. They’re mostly jabs and jibes, intended to make him angry, to make him _violent,_ because Judar prefers him that way, breathing rage and darkness. He has never mentioned Sin before.

Until now.

It’s a low blow, a death trap.

He doesn’t know how to react. He can’t say anything along the lines of “don’t talk about him; he has nothing to do with this.”, because that would mean acknowledging “this”. And because Sin’s presence has somehow been always there, a shadow lurking around, something that can only be seen at the corner of the eye.

Sin is the reason they have met. He is the reason—completely or partially—why they have ended up like this, one in Sindria, one in Kou. Being enemies.  

That doesn’t make it any easier for Ja’far to hear how Judar dares to mention the unmentionable. And he knows this is a mental game, like those questions about if he has missed the Magi, like almost everything that comes out of that cruel and pretty mouth. He knows it’s better to be careful because he’s sleeping with the devil, and the devil only wants to see him fall. He knows it’s better to ignore the words and let the silence speak for him.

He should be cautious, and ignore the question and make Judar unable to say anything apart from inarticulate sounds for the rest of the night. Even better, he should tell the Magi to leave.

He should.

But Ja’far is never cautious when Judar is around, be it in his bedroom or when they cross paths anywhere else. If he was, he would’ve tried to slice the Magi’s throat the first time he had kissed him.

(Well, in his defence, he _had tried_ to slice Judar’s throat, but he had ended up being more focused on making Judar moan his name rather than making him regret having touched him in the first place.)

So he does what he shouldn’t.

He answers.

“See me like _how_?”

“Ha! Sleeping with the enemy! Anybody could think you’re sharing state secrets.”

Ja’far side-eyes the pile of papers stacked over his desk, but he already knows there is nothing in there really important. He might have the enemy’s hands over his waist, but he’s not _that_ careless. Judar has never showed any interest in the documents in his room, either.

“If Sin _really_ thought I would tell Sindria’s secrets to the first brat I slept with, he would be actually stupid. He knows me better than you.”

One of Judar’s hands finds its way to his tight, sweeping his fingers along the scars a little too hard, and Ja’far has to bite his inner cheek to restrain a moan. (That’s a sensitive spot, something they discovered by accident and Judar has taken advantage of ever since).

The Magi doesn’t seem bothered by being called “brat”. Ja’far has called him worse things before.

“Oooh, but does he? Really?”

Ja’far narrows his eyes, yanking Judar’s hands off him. The air in his lungs feels thicker, oppressive, like he’s breathing in the shadows from the corners of his bedroom.

For the second time tonight, he knows it’s better to bite his tongue and pretend to haven’t heard the question.

For the second time tonight, he doesn’t.

“Yes.”

Something in Judar’s red eyes flicker, and Ja’far knows he has already lost whatever game the Magi was playing with him.

“So does he know that you like biting my neck like a ravenous beast?”

He can’t help but look at the marks he has left in Judar’s neck, already so ugly and noticeable that only Judar’s ever-present necklace will prevent anyone from wondering where they come from. He should feel guilty but he doesn’t, and that makes him feel more guilt.

He tries to hit the Magi off him, but Judar is faster, and simply floats away, out of his reach, taunting him.

“Does he know the look on your face when you moan?”

His voice isn’t mocking him, and that’s even worse. The tone is soft, loving, almost, as if the Magi is whispering compliments against his hair after having sex instead of stabbing him with each word.

“Judar.” Ja’far warns, because he knows, he _knows_ the next blow will be the hardest, but it’s no good.

Judar smiles, all teeth and malice. No. That’s not a smile. That’s not even a human mouth anymore. They’re a monster’s jaws, ready to devour him and everything he holds dear.

Ja’far exhales.

“Does he know you are so pathetically in love with him?”

The world stops.

Ja’far forgets to breathe again.

One second passes.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

Suddenly he feels steel in his hands; pure, unadulterated fire and poison and _hate_ in his veins. The beating of his heart is almost deafening. He doesn’t remember starting to breath again, his lungs are burning.

“Get out” he spats, his voice so dark he almost can’t recognize it as his own.

Despite his words, for a moment, he wishes the Magi stayed and fought with him, really fought. That would end up badly for him, but he doesn’t mind dying, right here, right now.

Death is better than Judar _knowing._  

Judar just floats farther away from him, and laughs, and laughs.

It’s not a gentle laugh.

Judar leaves without saying anything else, but even after a while his cackles are still echoing in Ja’far’s mind like an ancient curse. He knows the Magi is going back home happier than if they had had sex. Judar thrives from the misery of those around him, he feeds on deep secrets and forbidden desires. His cup is more than filled from tonight.

With his eyes still locked on the patch of dark sky Judar has disappeared into, Ja’far passes his fingers through the edge of his knives. They’re so sharp they draw blood, but he doesn’t even flinch.

The pain he feels comes from a totally different place.

### V.

Days, weeks pass, and no Magi appears at his windowsill. Ja’far tries to concentrate on his work and tells himself a million times that he doesn’t care.

It’s a lie.

He doesn’t miss _Judar;_ he thinks the world would be a better place without him. But there’s a void, an uneasiness growing in the back of his mind. He’s a man of order and routine after all, and he has become used to whatever their… business was—he can’t bring himself to say the word ‘relationship’ even in the privacy of his mind. He has already made too many mistakes regarding Judar. Becoming used to him is just one of them.

And then, there is _the thing._ The uncertainty. Like the dark clouds of a gathering storm, following him around everywhere. Like having to be constantly ready for an attack that doesn’t come.

_What is Judar going to do with what he knows._

_Does he care._

Ja’far is pretty sure the answer for the last one is ‘no’.

For the Magi, ripping his most precious secret right from his heart, spatted as if it is nothing, is just an entertaining thing he thought he could do. He would have done the same if the secret didn’t involve _feelings,_ because the important thing was not its content, but the fact that it was a secret. It’s doubtful Judar cares at all about his love life.

For Ja’far, it means having to rebuild the walls around him, and having to deal with what he has avoided for a very long time. He thought having to keep that secret during _years_ would turn it into something harmless. He was wrong.

It’s not like he’s unhappy. He knows he’s important to Sin, the person Sin trusts the most. He has learned to be content with just that; he’ll never ask for more because if he does, then what? Even if Sin loved him back in the same way, which is more than uncertain, he shouldn’t be or marry with anyone who isn’t of political importance. He’s the _king,_ after all. Sindria is far more important than Ja’far’s feelings, he’s not stupid.

(He’s only stupid when Judar is involved.)

So Ja’far keeps working, he keeps treating Sin like always. He smiles when he has to, he tells him off when he has to. He writes, and writes, and the ink stains his fingers and there’s no one there but he hears Judar’s laughs anyways.

### VI.

It has been a really, really long night, so at first Ja’far thinks his mind is playing tricks on him.

Judar steps closer and Ja’far realizes he’s actually there, no jewelry, a smile on his lips.

(Not the same as last time. This one is mocking, not vicious.)

“What do you want?” Ja’far asks. He’s tired, but he manages to speak with steel in his voice.

Judar doesn’t answer. He’s just stands there, within arm’s reach, and gives him an inquisitive look. Ja’far feels those damned red eyes of his piercing into his very soul. He guesses the Magi is evaluating his _rukh,_ and suddenly everything makes sense.

Judar wasn’t just trying to hurt him, he’s trying make him fall, truly _fall._ To curse his fate for not being able to get what he wants and give into the darkness of his heart. Oh, how little the Magi understands, how little he knows.

Sin saved him from falling years ago. Ja’far would never let himself be consumed by depravity because of Sin. He’ll die first.

“Why?” the Magi asks. He sounds angry, but Ja’far wants to believe that the anger is just a way to hide his confusion. _Why are you okay with staying like this._

“You don’t get how feelings and relationships work, do you?”

“I don’t need to get _anything.”_ Judar growls, grabbing his wrists while pushing him against the nearest wall. His grip is almost painful. “I want something, I take it.”

Except Sin, Ja’far thinks, although he knows better than to mention it. Judar had wanted Sin to be his chosen one. It’s almost poetic that the both of them want something—two very different somethings, but _something_ nevertheless—from the king of Sindria and both of their desires have to be left unfulfilled.

Then he feels eager fingers running through his hair,  starving kisses over his neck, Judar’s _lust_ so heavy, so hot that it seems unbelievable he can have ice magic and Ja’far forgets about everything. They don’t even touch the bed tonight, it’s just the two of them against the wall. Rough, and fast, and angry, but it feels good. It feels right.

Long after Judar has left—no goodbyes, no laughs either—, Ja’far still savours the aftertaste of blood in his mouth, and this time he isn’t sure if it’s his or Judar’s. Maybe both.

He wonders, not for the first time since the Magi discovered his secret, if he has been doing _this_ just as a way of venting his unrequited feelings. But he doesn’t think about Sin when Judar is tracing over the scars of his legs with teeth and tongue and _desire._ There’s just one name scraping at the inside of his throat when he comes, and it’s not Sin’s. His darkest dreams are only filled with red eyes and scornful laughs, the feeling of ice melting against his burning skin.

He doesn’t love Judar. He doesn’t even like him.

He just _wants_.

For them, that’s enough.


End file.
